


Earn It

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Holiday Collection [28]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Again, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Dominant & Submissive Natures, M/M, Mating Race, Mating Rituals, No actual sex, Prompt Day 28: Winter Forest, RusAmeHoliday, That's the Setting btw, Werewolf Mates, Werewolves, Why did I write about Werewolves?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9086785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: RusAme Holiday Prompt #28: Winter Forest[It was the biannual mating race – and he knew exactly whom he didn’t want to get caught by]EDIT: I also want people to be really clear, that the AU I’ve set this in has some serious societal issues.  In no way do I support anything that is implicated in the fic.  There are deeper issues in this society that can only be addressed by social change or social revolution.  The implications that exist in Alfred & Ivan’s relationship are indicative of larger issues in society that both of them, in some way, feel discomfited about (Alfred way more than Ivan in this case).  But please, keep that in mind when you’re reading this piece (If you’ve decided to read it after this warning).





	

**Author's Note:**

> In which it is a werewolf AU, and Alfred’s a grumpy submissive with dominant behavior, and Ivan wants to tap that so bad.  
> Inspired by the old fashioned bride hunts, I just had to do it.

            He wanted to strangle something.

            …that…sounded really bad.

            Maybe he should say that he _really_ wanted to be viciously violent- oh, hell, he was a werewolf, it was expected that he had some level of misplaced aggression. And tonight, of all nights, no one was going to chastise him for it.

            His father was making him participate in the mating race.

            He’d been too young, still not of age during the one that followed the summer solstice, even if his coming of age had been right around the corner. But it was just past Yuletide, and he had been of age for almost half of a year now; he had no excuse for not participating, even once, in the mating race.

            Except the fact that _he didn’t want to be mated!!!_

            Damn the rules, and _damn_ his _biology_! Both his parents were dominants that happened to coexist in a relationship and somehow, _miraculously_ according to the rest of the world, he and his brother had managed to be born to the two dominants. Which meant that everyone had expected them to be dominantly inclined. Growing up, Alfred had been aggressive, outgoing, driven, with a touch-trigger temper and a heart of gold; there hadn’t been a single person who knew him that would have ever thought he’d end up maturing as something other than a dominant. With Matthew there had been a lot of questions, but they had merely assumed he would be a dominant with submissive behavioral aspects, which, as it turned out, had been true. The elders of their small pack had gotten that right, at least.

            Which was more the pity for how _wrong_ they’d gotten Alfred.

            Alfred, upon his physical maturity, had realized that instead of being a dominant with dominant behavior, he was a _submissive_ with dominant behavior: an unruly combination that had people both shying away from him and trying to court him, testing the challenge that courting a submissive who fought back and appropriately subduing him. He’d never been hesitant in subduing _them_ in return.

            He had hoped that his father and his _papa_ wouldn’t make him participate in the mating race – make some excuse amongst the elders or something – but his father had not only decided he would participate in the race, he’d approached the elders and looked for potential mates who would probably make it the closest.

            Despite how discomforting and outraging it was that his father was essentially _betting_ on him with the elders, it was slightly comforting that the elder man thought he was fast enough to out run all the pathetic dominants that had wanted to mate him. And there were _a lot_ of those.

            But, if he was honest, he was fully confident in his ability to out run most of the horny, pathetic dominants that had been sniffing around him since he’d matured. Most, however, wasn’t _all_ , and there was _one_ dominant who’d made his interest absolutely, undeniably clear; one dominant who he was worried about, because despite the fact that he had speed on his side, _that_ dominant could probably take him down in a full on fist fight – not without working for it, though – _and_ could out think anyone who’d confronted him. A dominant he wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to run from half the time, which then startled him into wanting to run away _even more_. He never ran from fights; he ended them. But this…this was a fight he might be going into, having already lost.

            No one in this region of the world went against Ivan Braginsky.

            But, Mother Moon have mercy on him, he was going to try.

* * *

            The woods where the mating race was held was a picturesque scene from an old holiday card featuring the traditional winter woods. The trees were coated with a light layering of snow and frost from the earlier snowfall, making them look like they’d been dipped in powdered sugar. Icicles hung from extended evergreen boughs, and the cold, crispness of the icy woods was prevalent in the scent it gave off. There was a sense of comfort and warmth in the woods, just as much as the cold seemed to dominate it; there was no doubt that the winter woods were home to so many forest dwellers. They teemed with life, the scent of it brimming with brilliance. It was enough to confound any werewolf’s nose, which was the very reason the races were held here.

            The mating race was based upon the lore that a wolf would be able to track their true mate through the dense woods by scent and aura alone, despite the overpowering scent that the woods themselves gave off. It was the truest test of strength and skill for a dominant wolf, and the only safety that the submissive wolves had. Somehow, being a submissive nulled the effects that the woods had; they could smell everything as it was, unlike the dominants. It gave them the advantage in the race, which was the only thing in their favor. Normal submissives were often undertrained in their packs, easy prey for a dominant to find and abuse.

            Alfred was _far_ from a normal submissive, and he’d been training for this since the moment he matured.

            He studied the woods intensely, though really, there wasn’t a need for it. He’d played in these woods since he’d been a cub, fresh from infancy. These were _his_ woods, and the only time he’d ever been stopped from playing within them were around the solstices, when the mating races took place. Right now, standing before the woods with probably over a hundred other submissives – probably his entire age group from this region – they looked far more intimidating than ever. Every dominant who wanted to participate in the mating run would be there in an hour; that was all the head start they had. For most submissives, it was hardly any time at all. He would have to make it work.

            If he was still unmated by the time the moon crested at midnight, he was free for the next year, until he’d have to run again. If he wasn’t…well, that spoke for itself.

            “SUBMISSIVES!” a loud voice roared, and all attention turned to the dominant elder who had been leading them to the site, “In a moment, the sun will set beyond the hill. The moment it does, you will be free to begin your race. Remember that you have an hour until the dominants will arrive, and at most, two before they are released into the woods to begin their chase. Any submissive who remains unmated at the height of moonrise will be free to go as they are for the next year.” The elder looked over all of them, glancing for a few seconds longer at him, before he nodded, “GO FORTH!”

            There was a collective burst of motion from the front line as submissives pushed and shoved at each other, snarling and growling in an effort to get ahead. Alfred breathed separating himself out for that one crucial instance while the rest tried to battle _each other_ , wasting their energy, trying to get ahead, and bolted across the open side to get into the woods from another angle. He leapt, very unlike his fellows, and caught the tree limb in his grasp. He hauled himself up, and used the trees as his running ground.

            Through the trees he dashed, leaping from limb to limb, using the spectacular balance he was granted as a werewolf he’d honed into an almost supernatural grace to keep the movement consistent and flawless. He caught tree limb after tree limb, practically dancing through the forest, unnoticed by the hoard of submissives fighting each other to take the lead against the tide of incoming dominants.

            And they were already there, at the forest’s edge. Waiting.

            He stilled, half way through the thick forest, at least a few miles in from the nearest submissive runner, and tilted his head back to sniff at the air. His nostrils flared and his pupils dilated, even as he struggled to contain the instinctive reaction that had him cringing. There were, indeed, dominants at the edge of the winter woods. He could smell them as far in he was, his sense of scent honed by hour after hour, year after year of painstaking practice. They were hovering at the border, gathering in numbers that increased as the minutes passed like an object gliding through amber. He could practically _see_ them salivating, eyes gleaming in the rapidly rising moonlight as they took in the pulsing sent of ripe submissive mates running through the woods. Just because they couldn’t smell individual submissives, didn’t mean that they couldn’t sense the cloud of energy they all emitted when they’d bolted into the woods less than an hour ago. But that wasn’t the reason he’d frozen.

            He’d caught a scent on the wind, an individual scent that stuck out to him like a lily did, aglow against the darkness of the night. It had dripped of cold – frost that had nothing to do with the forest’s inherent beauty – and had the hint of evergreen that reminded him of the forest on a heady winter night, of the flu remedy his father would prepare when they were sick…of the Christmas trees they brought and decorated every winter. It was intent and vicious just as it was simultaneously passionate and frigid. And he could smell it, distinctly, from at the _least_ a distance of three miles into the forest. He could picture the dominant who owned the scent, who radiated it from their very pores; he saw the keen eyes gleaming in the moonlit sky, surveying the woods coldly but tracking the progress of the submissive they wanted as much as they could, senses honed, body primed leaning forwards, ready to bolt at the moment they were given the say so, and utterly ready to do _whatever it took_ to have their way.

            He caught a glimpse of violet eyes watching him in the forest’s ambiance, and nearly jolted himself out of his tree.

            For a heartbeat, all he could feel was those violet eyes – that couldn’t logically be anywhere _near_ him when the race hadn’t started yet – judging him, a half breath from utter silence and a decision that would change his life forever. Then, he breathed in again, took in the scent of the forest and all its life, all the frost that was _life_ and no other’s, and tightened his near-breaking grip on the tree limb he’d been perched on.

            He bolted.

            A howl rang solemnly through the air, echoing through the woods with a terrifying and electrifying tone of finality that reminded him of the chimes of a funeral bell tolling in a church tower. He ran faster as the almost overwhelming scent of incoming dominants forced him to stumble, the forest’s cloak revealing all to him while concealing him protectively from all those that desired his submission, willing or not.

            But just as fast as the scents had hit him, they retreated, though unmoving, in favor of the lightning quick scent of fir and frost that was bolting straight into the woods.

            Bolting straight towards _him_.

            For a moment, he took it in. He tried to rationalize, even as his speed increased, that it was possible that _he_ wasn’t looking for him; that there was another submissive in the area that the dominant was chasing after. But he was the only one who’d run this far, the only one that had the gift of training and preparation that had allowed him to out run all his so-called “competitors” and make his way so deep into the woods that it was unlikely any dominant would ever find him. And it was undoubtedly him that this dominant was after.

            The likelihood that he would be caught was skyrocketing the faster the dominant ran through the woods, stalking his trail like the barrier of the woods was negligent even as it confounded and terrified other dominants, elder and young alike.

            _He has to catch me, still_ , he told himself grimly, even as the possibility became probability, _and then we’ll fight, as far as I can take it. He won’t have me if he doesn’t win_. Because Ivan _would_ catch up to him; he had speed and intimate knowledge of the woods on his side, but the violet-eyed werewolf had trained since he’d been a pup to catch a submissive, and this was far from the elder wolf’s first race.

            Self-trained and his childhood knowledge served him well, but he knew it would come down to a fight at the end.

            And it did.

            He’d nearly reached the end of the woods, with less than an hour until midnight left in his race, when he was nearly tackled out of the tree. He’d smelled Ivan coming, and that had been the only reason he’d been able to avoid the tackle. He whirled, catching himself on the branch of a neighboring tree, curling himself upwards and onto higher ground. He was frozen, pressed against the bark of the tree, knowing Ivan was circling the tree, circling _him_ , down below. He caught a glimpse of nearly feral-dark violet eyes and triumph lighting his grin, bolstered by the hormone rush a good chase brought out in his veins. He could practically _hear_ the submissive part of his mindset purr in delight; their suitor was strong; skilled enough to chase his scent across the cloying woods, and had _plenty_ of stamina if he still had breath to fight with after he’d covered the distance Alfred had traveled in far less time.

            He scowled and shoved that part to the back of his mind, paying no attention to the whimper it tried to give him. _Not yet_ , he chanted to himself, those violet eyes catching in his periphery every time he turned to follow them, _not until he proves himself; not until he’s beaten me at everything I can take, and even then, it’s not enough…not yet._

            A terrifying grin curled at the corner of pale lips set in moonlight pale skin, “Come down,” his pursuer purred, the order softened into a gentle persuasion, “and you’ll get your fight, _dorogoy_. You’ll get that, and so much more. But only if you come down.”

            There was a pause, just a split second of silence that was filled with something even more terrifying than he’d ever contemplated, and the foreign dominant spoke, softly, ominously, “Unless you want me to come _up_. But if I have to come up to get you, I _promise_ you won’t like it nearly as much.”

            He opened his mouth, but closed it before he could say a word, heart in his throat and violet obscuring everything in sight. It was risky…do what he was told and risk an ambush, or don’t, and risk the dominant most likely to mate him being pissed off at him.

            _Well, I’ve always been the stupidly brilliant type_ , he thought to himself as he leapt into the tree next to him, a few meters away from where Ivan had paused in his circling, and slid down the trunk to land into a crouch on the forest’s soft grass carpet.

            Violet eyes that had haunted his chase, dogged his steps every path he’d tried to take, stared into him, studying him, analyzing him. Until a pleased smile rose to those lips, satisfied with what he was seeing, and he felt something curl in his gut to feel that smile directed at him. Half of him tore at him to yank himself away, to run, to bolt in the other direction, while the other half spoke softly, convincing him, _this is far from the worst mate you could have…in fact, he’s probably the best you’ll ever have; he **chased you** , and he wants to fight you. He wants to win, fairly. How many dominants go that far for a mate they want? How many would risk losing instead of just mounting an unwilling submissive, securing the mate they desire? And you know he could do it; he could have you on the ground, clothes gone, pulsing inside of you within minutes, and you’d not be able to do a thing. He’s giving you a chance to **accept** him. How many would do that?_

            Funny, his father had once told him that there was nothing in the world he couldn’t do, if he set his mind to it. Pretty ideology and cold reality warred in his head, and he felt himself shift into an aggressive pose, heartbeat increasing as he saw the feral grin grow on Ivan’s face as the other wolf slid into a defensive stance.

            Ivan wasn’t the worst mate he could have. But he wasn’t going to _settle_.

            “Beat me fair and square,” he drawled, reluctantly biting back an insult that might’ve made things worse for himself, “no tricks, no traps, no trades. You want me? You’ll win, but you’ll follow _my_ rules.”

            Ivan’s grin nearly eclipsed his face, and he chuckled, “That’s all I ask,” he purred, eyes gleaming. Alfred launched himself at the older wolf only seconds before he’d finished speaking. Ivan dodged fluidly, barely avoiding a face full of moon-sharpened claws, followed up by a kick to the groin, and beamed.

            Oh, he’d chosen well. He’d chosen _very_ well.

            Eyes sharp and senses keen, he immersed himself in their fight: their mating dance, the end of their chase. He’d win this fight; he’d fight this fight as if it was a battle for the very air he breathed. Because if he let this wonderful, feisty, strong, and _powerful_ young submissive win, he would never forgive himself, even if it would be a loss worth holding.

            After all, if he lost, there was no one else in the world who would be able to win against that blue-eyed cunning, and knife-sharp smile.

            So he would win. But Alfred would make him _work_ for his victory. Come midnight, he’d proclaim his victory to the skies, but he would have every right to.

            He would _earn it_.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't actually bring myself to write a sex scene...yet. That scene could've been so much hotter, I feel bad just thinking about not writing it. Hmmm...maybe for tomorrow; it would suit the way I'm writing the prompt, I think.
> 
> I think it was a weird way to end it, but I just wasn't sure how to continue the ending. I think switching the POV at the end gave a glimpse into the way Ivan was thinking. We know Alfred's opinion of dominants and their ambitions, but I hope hearing Ivan's thoughts softened your perception a bit. Ivan genuinely likes Alfred, not just his prospects as a submissive, but as a person. And he's of the opinion that if he doesn't earn his victory, than he doesn't deserve it. But if Alfred doesn't fight, he doesn't deserve the "lenience" Ivan is showing in regards to the way dominants often chose their mates. A fighting mate is worthy of the choice - to mate or not to mate - but one who doesn't, who slinks away from probably one of the most important fights of their life...well, Ivan has his reasons for thinking that behavior to be inexcusable.
> 
> Art Inspired by this work:  
>  Juxtaposition Ivan  an aesthetic by kckbunny


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